Hardy saw a red streak on the carpet, starting two feet from his room and disappearing under the closed door; he opened it and slid his hand up the wall. A wash of light illuminated the room and the bodies of the Premier’s security agents, lying on the floor. Blood-soaked stains on the carpet surrounded them. Hardy checked, but the men were dead.
He dug out his Pelican 1920 flashlight from his pocket. Before entering the room, he quickly pressed and released the button on the flashlight, getting a glimpse of what was inside. If there were a shooter, the flashlight’s beam would provide a perfect target. He flashed the room one more time before entering and darting to the right.
Flashing the left side of the room, he noticed a lump on the floor. Flashing again, he saw a black dress and knee boots. Natasha. He hurried to her side and knelt, his head pivoting, his eyes watching the room. She was lying on her right side. Her weapon was on the floor near her stomach. Hardy rolled her toward him and brushed the hair away from her face. Her eyelids fluttered. Shining his light on her body, he did not see any bullet wounds. Starting at the top of her head, he ran his hands along the sides before cupping the back. His fingers found a small bump. She had been hit on the head. He whispered. “Natasha, it’s me, Hardy. Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes and moaned. “Go,” her speech was slurred, “I’m okay,” as she lifted a limp arm toward the door to the inner bedchamber, “Go.”
Hardy made sure she had her pistol before creeping toward the door; light was coming from the crack beneath it. A shadow broke up the light pattern. Stowing his flashlight, he slowly opened the door with his left hand, pushing it to the left. I hope somebody’s oiled these hinges, lately. Light streamed out. A man dressed in a black suit—his back to Hardy—was pointing a weapon at the Premier and his wife, who were in bed on the far side. The woman was sobbing and holding the bedcovers to her chin. Her husband was shielding her with his body. It was a futile act, but everyone assumed the position when a loved one was in danger. Unable to get a clear shot without risking the lives of the innocent, Hardy eased his weapon into his holster and crept closer to the man—speaking in Russian; final words he wanted the Premier to know before killing him. Within arm’s reach, Hardy sprung forward.
Aiming for the weapon, Hardy miscalculated and clasped the man’s hands. He jerked upward and the gun discharged once. A grappling match for control of the weapon ensued. The gun fired two more times, sending one bullet into the floor and a second one into the ceiling. The empty shell casing of the last round lodged sideways between the weapon’s slide and barrel, rendering the gun inoperable. Above the noise, he heard the Premier’s wife cry out. Hardy drove the man into the wall, smashing the gun hand against the wallboard several times. The weapon dropped to the floor with a thud.
Hardy kneed the side of the man’s midsection. The air left the assailant’s lungs and he grunted, recovering enough to push Hardy away. Hardy threw a punch, but the man blocked the strike before walloping Hardy several times in the gut. Hardy gasped for air, while the man landed punches to the side of his head. Seeing stars, Hardy raised his hands to block the incoming fists. In between blocks, he jabbed, connecting a few times, until the attacker ducked and tackled Hardy at the foot of the bed. With the Russian agent sitting on his chest, Hardy was being pummeled. He redirected many of the blows, and he could see his adversary was tiring from the exertion of energy. Biding his time, he waited for the opportunity to go on the offensive. That opportunity never came, however.
Two shots rang out to Hardy’s left and the man clutched his throat, blood oozing between his fingers and streaming toward Hardy’s chest. Using the doorframe for a crutch, Natasha was pointing her pistol in his direction. He delivered three rapid strikes, and the man’s head rocked backward. Grabbing the man by the lapels of his suit coat, Hardy rolled, until he was on his knees, straddling the bleeding man. “Who sent you?”
The man tightened his grasp on his throat. He opened and closed his mouth; blood ran from the corners.
“Who do you work for?” Hardy wrenched, raising the man’s head off the floor. “Answer me. Was it Popovich?” He shoved. The man’s head thumped against the floor. “Who do you work for?” He continued asking questions, but never received any answers. The gurgling noises eventually stopped, and the only sound that was heard was Hardy’s heavy breathing. Letting go of the dead man, he sat on his haunches.
Natasha held the back of her head. “It’s over. He’s dead.”
He faced her. “What did you do that for?”
“Do what—save your life? He was going to beat you to death. If I hadn’t been here, he would’ve cracked your skull open.”
Hardy stood and gestured toward the corpse, a pool of blood flowing outward from the neck. “I had him right where I wanted him. He was getting tired.”
Standing straight, she cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “Seriously, that’s what you’re going with—I had him right where I wanted him?” She shook her head and half laughed.
“Now, we’ll never know who sent him.” Hardy was not upset with her. If he had been in the same position, he would have pulled the trigger, too. He was angry the situation had gotten this far. He saw her holding the back of her head, her pistol in hand, her arm hanging at her side. “Are you okay?”
Natasha checked her fingers for blood. “I will be.” She pointed her chin at him. “How are you doing? Are you—” A deep voice from behind cut her off in mid-sentence.
“Gun!”